Walls of Glass
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #94 Acting on the vaguest of clues, Spock goes in search of his missing wife.


For the third time in as many days, Spock settled onto his sofa and opened T'Naisa's favorite book at random. He had removed the Upon My Death message tucked between its well-worn pages, lest some stranger come upon it. This past year he had read every word of the book twice over, committing it to Vulcan memory and searching, ever searching for some obscure clue to his wife's disappearance.

 _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ , by Betty Smith.

It was easy to see why T'Naisa had loved the tale of a lonely girl feeling estranged from a mother she viewed as cold, but devoted to the father who understood her so well. In many ways it was T'Naisa's own story. Having grown up on a space station with a Vulcan mother and human father, she would understand Francie's emotional difficulties, sense of deprivation, and yearnings.

 _What had become of her?_ The nagging certainty of his bondmate's existence continued to wear on him. In the absence of any clear evidence, there was no logical lead to explore, yet something other than logic demanded that he act.

Reaching a decision, Spock snapped the book shut, went into the bedroom, and packed his valise with a weekend's worth of necessities. It would do for a start. Now that the Plum Creek seminary was closed for the summer, he could even extend his travels if he chose. On second thought, he also packed the book and then made arrangements to visit Brooklyn.

oooo

Daylight was rapidly failing when Spock arrived at his destination on the eastern coast of North America. The Hotel St. George had been in operation during the timeframe portrayed in T'Naisa's book, and he had chosen a room decorated with historically accurate wallpaper and furnishings. Setting his valise on the nubby chenille bedspread of the "four poster", he pocketed his padd and went out for a walk. Like so many areas of modern New York, Hicks Street bustled with pedestrians of many races, including those alien to Earth. Now and then a private air car hummed a few feet above the roadway, but public transit and air taxis were the preferred methods of travel.

To avoid recognition or perhaps being mistaken for his celebrity twin, Spock wore a hooded cloak as he made a wide circuit of the neighborhood, alert to every detail. Every head of red hair caught his eye as he approached merchants and pedestrians to show a video clip of T'Naisa on his padd. More than once he asked himself why he had made the trip; after all, detectives had already scoured the area. Was it not a waste of time and money that could be better spent elsewhere?

With the coming of night, the ever-present loneliness closed in on him and he returned to the hotel. Back in his room, he stood before an antique wood-framed mirror and studied his reflection. Faint lines showed on his face, and though there was a minor slackening of flesh under the jaw, his hair was as dark as ever. Having topped one hundred, he could still pass for a well-preserved human of fifty, but tonight he was feeling the weight of his years. He should be settling his mind with prayerful meditation. Instead, he called down to room service and ordered a vegetable omelet and rye toast. Then he released the video screen from its cabinet and selected an old movie. _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,_ with Peggy Ann Garner.

oooo

Spock had covered all of Bogart Street, Lorimar Street, and other Brooklyn environs mentioned in the book. He had spent hours along the Hudson River, all to no avail. Now, having packed his valise and checked out of the hotel, he donned his hood, took an air cab to the Brooklyn Bridge, and walked across it to Manhattan.

It was a bright, cloudless morning. Once in the city, he paused to gaze upward at several "glass-clad" skyscrapers. Sun glinted on the transparent aluminum, making the older stone buildings seem dull by comparison. Yet the antique stone conveyed a pleasing sense of solidity that reflective structures lacked.

At precisely noon, he entered a café and ordered a fruit plate. While slowly eating, he considered the fact that his New York venture had utterly failed. He had been mistaken to think that some hidden clue might jump out at him from the streets of Brooklyn. Apparently T'Naisa's book held no connection to her disappearance. Yet—however illogical—he could not accept the possibility that he might never see her again. He would go on hoping until all sense of her presence faded from their bond. And perhaps even then he would hope.

After paying for the meal, he adjusted his hood, took up his valise, and headed back outside, determined to undertake an unpleasant task before returning home. Right here in Manhattan there lived an aged, bitter woman who blamed him for the death of her daughter and granddaughter. Whether or not he actually bore some guilt for the circumstances of their murder, Elizabeth Fielding had shunned him as if he had personally wielded the knife. Twice over the years, he had attempted to heal the rift between them. Now that he had come this far, he would at least try again.

Summoning an air cab from his wrist phone, he rode to 15 Central Park West. The tall, impressive structure occupied an entire block by Central Park.

As he alit from the cab and approached a main entrance, a uniformed doorman eyed him and said, "Your pass, sir."

Anticipating rejection, Spock identified himself and expressed a desire to see Mrs. Elizabeth Fielding. The doorman verified Spock's identity and relayed the information. Then the conscientious employee unexpectedly opened the door and said, "Enjoy your visit, sir."

Spock passed through the opulent lobby, and in the course of the elevator ride to the 20th floor, began to develop a "case of nerves". He had never expected to get this far. What might Elizabeth say to him? What could he say to her that he had not already voiced since Lauren and Teresa's death? _I am sorry for your loss. They were my wife, my daughter, and I also miss them. Let there be peace between us._

The gentle movement of the lift came to an end. As the ornate doors slid smoothly apart, he exited. Two penthouses occupied the entire floor. Drawing a deep breath, he dropped his hood, tightened his grip on his valise, and approached the security panel beside Mrs. Fielding's door. Sensing his presence, a computer asked him to speak his name and submit to a retina scan. After Spock complied, the synthesized voice then inquired as to the nature of his visit. He was considering his reply when the door burst open and a tall, mustached man caught him in a rough embrace.

"Larry!" said Spock in surprise. So Elizabeth's son had admitted him to the building.

Dressed in casual clothes, Father Laurence Fielding stepped back. The priest was in his seventies—younger than Spock, but much older in appearance, and his thinning hair had gone completely gray. Eyes twinkling, he said, "Am I ever glad to see you! Another day or so and I would have given you a call."

Spock cast an uneasy glance into the penthouse and inquired, "Is your mother home?"

Larry's smile faded. Ducking his head, he said, "Come inside."

Spock walked into the luxurious entryway. It had been years since he set foot in the penthouse, and judging by this initial glimpse, there had been a great many changes.

As the door sealed them in privacy, Larry said, "She's gone."

Spock turned and looked at him. "Gone?"

"I've done my darndest to keep it out of the news for now, but Mom died early last week. She was en route to Antares III, aboard a starliner. They said it was a stroke."

Spock experienced relief, then a pang of sorrow for the caring, spritely woman he had once known. But that kindhearted Elizabeth had disappeared from his life long ago, when she became a hateful, bitter stranger.

"My condolences," he said.

Larry sighed. "She treated you badly, Spock. What happened to Lauren was…"

Spock reached out and touched his arm in a gesture of compassion. Words were unnecessary. They had both loved Lauren—Spock as her bondmate, and Laurence as her twin brother.

Larry roused himself and changed the subject. "Well, I see you brought some luggage. You'll stay here with me, won't you?" Recovering his wry sense of humor, he gestured at the extravagant surroundings. "I think I might find you a room."

oooo

The guest accommodations were actually a suite. The spacious bedroom, bath, and private sitting room gave new meaning to the phrase, "height of luxury", for its floor-length windows offered an expansive view of Central Park and New York's historic skyline. Returning to the main living room, Spock lingered by the gleaming grand piano he had played during visits when his son Simon and the twins were young.

"Come to the kitchen," Larry said, moving him along.

Spock followed his host into the gleaming ultra-modern facility, where a computer sat on a table strewn with paper documents of all kinds. Noting a scent new to him, he tilted his head. "What an interesting aroma."

Larry's momentary blank look vanished. "Oh. Fried boloney. I made a sandwich. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"No, thank-you." Fried boloney seemed a rather humble offering from such a kitchen, but Laurence Fielding was very different than his mother. He had spent a lifetime under a Salesian vow of poverty, caring for those less fortunate than himself.

Looking harried, the priest ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "Spock, she named me her executor, and it's turning into a real nightmare. Could you help me out? I can pay you by the hour…out of the estate."

Taking stock of the disorder, Spock said, "Considering her financial standing, I would have thought that her affairs would be well-organized."

"Her business concerns, yes. It's these personal bits and pieces that are driving me nuts. File upon file of automatic payments to who-knows-where."

Spock leaned toward the computer screen and eyed the data. "Philanthropic pursuits?"

"Yes, there are plenty of those—most of _them_ clearly marked. But…" Larry pulled a couple of chairs out from the table. "Here, sit down and I'll show you."

Spock obliged. They had been friends for so many years that they naturally fell into a quiet, companionable conversation over the lines of information. There were many full names listed with banking codes beside them. But here and there, only a single name such as "Bonnie" and "Oliver".

Larry pointed them out. "See what I mean? And get a load of this one. 'Asian'—with an off-planet link. And stranger yet, out of all this mess, Mom's will set aside money to take care of him until his death."

"Perhaps a former employee," Spock suggested. "Or a friend."

Larry waved a hand in frustration. "Who knows? Oh, that reminds me." His hand settled on an untidy stack of papers and pulled out an envelope. "I was waiting to deliver this in person. Don't get excited, but you were actually named in the will."

"Named in her will?" Spock found it most unlikely. Curious, he took the envelope, opened the unsealed flap, and drew out a sheet of legal paper. "One credit," he read aloud, "to be equally divided among yourself and all living progeny." He was calculating the precise division of the miniscule inheritance when Larry spoke.

"One credit…one dollar. It's an ancient form of insult among humans."

"Most effective," Spock concurred.

oooo

Early evening on the following day, they left the penthouse for an infusion of culture. At Larry's urging, they had rented appropriate eveningwear—black and white, as custom had dictated for centuries. The prime seats at Lincoln Center had been secured through a friend of his late mother. _Swan Lake_ , exquisitely produced with world class dancers and musicians.

From the very first note, Spock worked at containing his emotional responses, for the ballet was a favorite of his slain wife. In the grief-stricken period following Lauren and Teresa's murder, he had once downed an entire bottle of wine while listening to this very score. The brief period of inebriation had resulted in severe illness.

At his side Larry nudged him and said, "Beautiful, huh?"

"Indeed," Spock murmured. Onstage, the disturbing scene of young Odette's capture turned his thoughts to T'Naisa. Not deceased like Lauren, of that much he was absolutely certain. _Then where was she?_ As always, he shied from the painful conclusion that she had deserted him.

His mind settled on the safer mystery of "Asian". Who was that unfortunate individual and why did he…or she…merit such careful attention from Mrs. Fielding? Earlier today he determined that Asian had been confined to a mental facility on Mason's Resolve for 1.15 years, an unusually long period considering the overwhelming success of modern psychiatric therapies. Confidentiality laws prevented him from gaining any further information.

As the ballet progressed, Spock was still pondering the nature of Asian's diagnosis when something stirred deep in his psyche. How odd; 1.15 years was almost the exact timeframe in which T'Naisa had been missing. Coincidence? When it came to mysteries, every apparent coincidence merited careful examination, but for now it would have to wait as he focused his full attention on Act III of _Swan Lake_. The performers danced with flawless grace while the story unfolded. At last the spell over Odette was broken and she died in the prince's arms. In just such a way Spock had held Lauren's body when he came upon the murder scene. And then again, T'Naisa, as she had narrowly escaped death after a bombing on Vulcan. He was pushing those morbid memories aside when the audience erupted in applause and the dancers came forward for their curtain calls. At last the lights in the theater brightened.

"On to P. J. Clark's," Larry said, rising. "It's in walking distance."

The evening was warm and the sidewalks busy as they arrived at the historic 1894 pub. As sometimes happened, Spock was mistaken for his celebrity brother and seated immediately. Since the name "Nayo" was never mentioned, he made no attempt to clarify his identity.

With its subdued lighting, paneled walls, and dark wood floors, the pub had a pleasant, restful atmosphere. Larry ordered them each a glass of wine, and steak for himself. Spock selected a hot Philly style sandwich, substituting extra cheese, peppers, and onions for the meat. On the table there was a small tablet of paper bearing the pub's logo, along with a pen—quaint in an era where electronic padds were the norm. Halfway through the meal, he reached for the pad, took up the pen, and printed ASIAN in large block letters.

Across the booth, Larry swallowed a bite of steak and asked, "Any ideas?"

"None yet," Spock admitted. For the fifteenth time he reviewed every definition of the word, seeking something beyond a racial or geographical reference. _A name?_ He had heard of women called Asia, but never Asian. Over and over he read it…and then, for once, read it backwards.

Spock gave a visible start as a shock of adrenaline passed straight through his body.

Noticing, Larry asked, "What is it?"

Spock's heart was pounding hard; his voice came low and rough. "Perhaps nothing…or perhaps everything." Taking up the pen, he wrote the letters in reverse and turned it toward the priest.

It read, N-A-I-S-A.

oooo

Certainly it would not be beyond the capability of a woman controlling the vast Sanger fortune. With virtually limitless wealth at her disposal, along with the finest of interstellar ships, Elizabeth could easily have staged an abduction and spirited T'Naisa to an obscure lockdown facility on a faraway planet.

As for motive? Back at the penthouse, with the collar of his tuxedo open, Spock slowly paced the living room and stated it aloud. "Your mother blamed me for Lauren's death. What better revenge than to deprive me of my current wife?"

"Now wait a minute." Larry's tone was defensive as he rose to his feet. "Maybe you shouldn't have had that wine. Mom may have had some issues, but…"

Spock came to a halt and faced him. "I drank only half a glass. As for your mother, I do not mean to disparage her, but the facts bear closer examination."

"Because of the coincidental timeframes? And that name reversal?" After a moment of honest reflection, Larry's slim shoulders slumped. "You're right, of course. Maybe…just maybe it _is_ T'Naisa. The fact is, Mom owned controlling interest in that chain of hospitals. There's very little that she _didn't_ run. I only hope to God…"

"Yes," Spock said. While he hoped to find T'Naisa, Larry was hoping to maintain his mother's innocence. In the end, one of them would face disappointment.

He went to the computer. Before leaving, he would need proof of T'Naisa's identity, for Elizabeth had likely linked the facility's system to a false database. T'Naisa had briefly attended Starfleet Academy, and as her husband, Spock readily accessed that privileged information. In a matter of minutes a disk was loaded with her retina scan, 3-D holographic image, and genetic readout. He then added online proof of their marriage, plus multiple news reports documenting her disappearance.

By midnight he had examined and reexamined every contingency and finalized his itinerary. Dressed in traveling clothes, he stood ready to take his leave.

Larry looked sad to see him go. "You're investing a great deal in this lead of yours."

"I must try," Spock said. "Until now there has been no lead of any kind." The matter of Larry's mother hung between them. "It is not that I wish to find Elizabeth guilty…"

Larry nodded. "I know." With a hint of a crooked smile, he asked, "May I offer you a blessing? For a safe journey?"

As Spock bowed his head in acceptance, the priest laid both hands on his dark hair, spoke a prayer, and then traced a cross in the air saying, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

oooo

Mason's Resolve was a well-established Federation colony world in the Beta Quadrant. Like many such ventures, it had been founded on Utopian principles that later moderated to a more traditional form of society. Today, Mason's was hardly distinguishable from Earth, both in appearance and mode of living.

Spock's view of the blue autumnal sky vanished as his shuttle slipped into its bay for a perfect landing at Lakeport.

"Thank you for flying with Interstellar Spaceways," the pilot's pleasing female voice spoke over the com system.

Along with the other passengers, Spock disengaged his safety belt, stood up, and retrieved his valise from the overhead. Noting some inner tension, he consciously placed himself in the Shiav's keeping even as he embraced the Vulcan discipline learned as a child. Now, of all times, he must keep taut control over his emotions.

With calm, measured steps he left the shuttle, passed through customs, and boarded an air cab.

"Lakeview Pavilion," he said.

The pilot gave him a scrutinizing look, perhaps wondering if Spock would be a psychiatric patient or member of the asylum's staff. Then they were on their way. In a matter of minutes Spock paid his fare and disembarked at the facility's visitor lot. Carrying his valise, he made his way toward the main entrance on a walkway flanked by lawns. The entire multilevel structure seemed to be floating on Lake Bidwell, but it was actually anchored in the lakebed. From his research, Spock knew that both the sides and back walls were constructed of transparent aluminum with unrestricted views of the water and surrounding hills. The entire chain of facilities had grown from an experiment in early 21st century Paris, where an aquatic environment was found to reduce aggression and other stress-related behaviors in psychiatric patients.

Spock stepped up to the main entrance and paused to search along the bond he shared with T'Naisa. Surely if she were near, he would have sensed it by now, but he felt only a dim ache of separation.

The door hissed open and a woman stopped short, clearly surprised at finding a Vulcan on the doorstep.

"Oh!" she said. Then, "Can I help you?"

Spock cleared his throat. "I…have come in regard to a patient at this facility…registered under the name 'Asian'."

Her face puckered with deep concern. "Yes. Asian. Are you here to consult on her case?"

So Asian was _female_. As a thrill of excitement surged through him, he drew a deep steadying breath. "My name is Spock. I have travelled from Earth in the hope that Asian might be my wife."

oooo

Spock had presented a copy of his disk at the front desk. Ninety minutes later, he was still relegated to a waiting area while unseen authorities pored over its contents. Rising from a plush chair, he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out the transparent wall at a flock of native birds bobbing on the lake's surface. Though the floor was rock-steady, the building's boat-like illusion threatened to trigger seasickness, of which he was most susceptible. His momentary excitement had passed, leaving a stolid sense of resignation as he pondered the present situation. What could be taking so long? Was the delay a positive or negative sign? They might suspect him of some criminal intent and were awaiting a constable's arrival.

At last he heard footsteps on the hall carpeting and turned to meet a solitary man in a business suit.

"Mr. S'chn T'gai?" the stranger asked, stumbling over its pronunciation. "I'm Jerry Holt, Lakeview administrator."

They shook hands.

"So you want to visit Asian," Holt said. "Come this way."

Out in the hall, a pair of attendants joined them. The walls were cream colored, with a narrow border patterned in a shade of mauve that perfectly matched the springy carpet underfoot. From behind one door, Spock's sharp hearing picked up a disconsolate moan. If the administrator heard the sound, he ignored it and passed on, but the lament seemed to lance deep into Spock's marrow. Suddenly he felt unprepared, but there was no stopping the process he had so resolutely set in motion.

They reached Asian's door. The administrator pressed his palm to a reader and door hissed open as he said, "I must warn you, her sedation is wearing off."

The room was decorated primarily in blue. Wrong for a Vulcan. Wrong even for a half-Vulcan, and Spock could see that the woman sitting vacantly in the chair was…like him…a halfling. What remained of her wavy red tresses were braided back tightly, leaving two pointed ears in plain view. _Had she been ripping_ _out her own hair?_ One could see that her fingers were very restless. As he took in the dismaying scene, one grotesquely swollen hand formed into a fist and she began pounding an arm already bruised and knotted from self-violence.

Spock broke free of his shock and rushing over, snatched her fist away.

Her brown eyes flared with rage and she attacked him.

oooo

Spock was bleeding, but he scarcely noticed the pain. Staunching the bloody scratches on his neck with a hand towel, he watched the hospital attendants settle his freshly sedated wife on her bed. If Elizabeth Fielding were not already dead, he might have killed her with his bare hands.

"She came to us like this," explained the administrator in an apologetic tone. "With a diagnosis of drug resistant schizophrenia. We had no way of knowing that her behavior was only a side-effect of unnecessary medication."

"Get her off the medication," Spock said through his teeth. " _All_ of it."

"Of course, or course," Holt readily agreed, "but it can't be done all at once. In three months' time, perhaps."

Spock turned and beheld him with fierce eyes and a raised brow.

Quickly Holt said, "Alright, maybe two months and she'll be well enough to travel. Her body needs to adjust gradually. You could take her home then and continue the process under her regular physician. Meanwhile, we have a guest room where you can stay free of charge."

"I will remain right here," Spock informed him, "with my wife."

oooo

A dollop of beard repressor in hand, Spock stood at a restroom sink, consumed by dark thoughts. In ancient Vulcan, the men of his clan had grown beards upon taking a sacred oath of vengeance. Should he or should he not? Just now, the idea seemed quite appealing.

It had been a bad night, most of which was spent holding a violent woman tightly lest she harm him or herself. There was nothing of T'Naisa evident in Asian. His beloved wife—the delight of his heart—had become an irrational stranger. Someone would pay for this injustice. Elizabeth Fielding had taken the secret to her grave, but her reputation would suffer. Only now, news of the "multibillionaire philanthropist's" death was making the news in reports lavish with undeserved praise. Once this ordeal was over—whether or not T'Naisa recovered—he would bring every sordid fact to light, ruining Elizabeth's social standing for all time.

Reaching a decision, he slathered the mildly scented repressor over his face and down his neck, where the scratches were healing. T'Naisa knew him without a beard, so he would remain clean-shaven. And then…?

Since the shock of the previous day, he had not taken time to meditate. In fact, he had scarcely meditated since leaving for Brooklyn. His mind—no, his very soul—was painfully unsettled. Leaving the bathroom, he took his padd and went outside, beyond the walls of glass, and sat on a lakeside bench. Mist hung above the surface of the water. Closing his eyes, he rested his hands on his lap, palms up, and attempted to center himself without success. Something was deeply amiss, but he chose not to consider it. Instead, he focused on the inner litany of anger and told himself, _Retribution is not only a matter of logic, but of justice._

Taking up his padd, he began to plan his exposé.

oooo

As the medications were adjusted downward, T'Naisa displayed even more agitation. Spock had gone without sleep for a week when a package arrived from Vulcan. Soon after finding T'Naisa, he had sent word to his children and then contacted a Yanashite healer on Mount Seleya, detailing the medical situation. T'Mira's package contained herbs custom-mixed for a halfling in T'Naisa's state, along with directions for their use.

Spock brewed a tea and offered it to his wife, but she threw it at him. The second cup went much the same way. On the third try he added a concentrated infusion to a cup of strong coffee, and taking a chair, pretended to sip it. T'Naisa had never been able to resist coffee. Even at ten feet distant, she could easily smell its aroma.

Staring at it hungrily, she said, "Mine?

It was the first word she had spoken to him.

"Yes, yours," he replied with relief, holding the cup out.

Rising, she took the herb-laced beverage from his hand and drank every drop.

There was no doubt that the Vulcan herbs accelerated T'Naisa's recovery. After only the second week, she no longer attempted to harm him or herself. Though she still did not recognize Spock, she tolerated his presence and made it clear for the first time that she preferred having the drapes tightly shut. Spock wondered if the closed-in atmosphere subconsciously reminded her of their little cabin at Plum Creek. Perhaps he should now stimulate her memory in other ways.

Setting his padd aside, he brought out her favorite book, and began reading it aloud from the beginning. "Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York…"

As he turned to page two, T'Naisa smiled wistfully and said, "Francie."

Spock looked up from the page and their eyes met. That morning when he brushed her hair, he had left it loose to better conceal the missing patches that were growing back. Her unexpected smile made her seem even more like the woman he remembered.

But suddenly her smile died and in a hateful tone she exclaimed, "What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Spock sat motionless, his heart pounding hard. If she truly recognized him, why the anger? Carefully he asked, "Who…do you think I am?"

Her face crumpled. Hiding behind her healing hands, she began to weep. The signals from their bond confused Spock, but for the first time since her abduction there were _strong_ signals.

Slowly he set the book aside, then stood. "T'Naisa," he said, inwardly beckoning to the bondmate buried somewhere inside this mental patient. Would he ever see that vibrant, joyful woman again?

"Why…why did you come?" she sobbed. "You don't love me…"

Throwing all caution aside, Spock went over and gently pulled her from her chair, into an embrace. He expected her to fight him. Instead, she drew him even closer and held on so tightly that it hurt.

Tears welling, he insisted, "I _do_ love you. _Ashayam_ , don't you know who I am?"

"You're my husband," she cried into his shoulder, "my husband Spock. But…but the men told me this was _your_ doing. That…that _you_ sent me here…"

"Sent you?" Spock drew back and gazed into her eyes. "It was Elizabeth Fielding who had you abducted, drugged, and taken far from Earth. I never stopped searching for you."

She shook her head in confusion. "Then…then you really didn't do it?"

"Why else would I be here now?" he asked logically.

oooo

Now Spock understood the rage he had sensed from T'Naisa on the June morning when she first disappeared. It had not been enough for Elizabeth to abduct her and fill her with drugs; by putting the blame on Spock, she had left T'Naisa in complete desolation. What could be more vile? The pain of that realization sent Spock more and more to his padd, where he composed his upcoming exposé in ever greater detail.

Once T'Naisa began to believe in him, the pace of her recovery accelerated. She would remain emotionally fragile for some time to come, but the doctor soon agreed that she no longer needed to be locked up. Spock moved with her into a guest room, away from the monitors that robbed one of all privacy. And one night as they lay in the same bed, quietly talking, T'Naisa surprised him with a trusting, sensual kiss. He needed no further urging, and an hour passed in the age-old manner of conjugal love.

From that point on, Spock knew that he would have his wife back. At the end of six weeks, T'Naisa took her final dosage of the last psychotropic drug, and Mr. Hold issued his final apology. Their bags were packed and reservations confirmed.

As Spock accepted the administrator's handshake and walked out with T'Naisa to the waiting air cab, he seethed, "There is a most applicable human saying. 'I ought to sue his ass'."

T'Naisa reached over and grasped his free hand. "Spock, he didn't know."

He saw fear rising in her eyes and brought himself under taut control. But once in their starliner cabin, he took out his padd and continued preparing his revelation for the press.

Seated across from him at a small viewport, T'Naisa suddenly said, "Can't you put that thing down?"

Spock glanced up in some surprise. "As you wish."

"You're still at it," she continued, "aren't you? Figuring out how to get back at them."

Spock raised a brow. "I would not use that terminology, but once home, we must release this story immediately. Justice demands it."

T'Naisa briefly gazed out at the stars. "Justice, Spock? Is that really what you want?"

Then her eyes met his and he could scarcely restrain his impatience. "Yes, T'Naisa. Justice. The guilty parties _must_ be implicated."

She leaned forward. "I've already told you. I have no way of identifying the men who abducted me. They came up from behind and used a phaser. When I came to, their faces were covered and I was already aboard some sort of ship. They said that you had paid them…and then the drugs started. There's no possible way to trace those men, and you know it. That's not what this is about. It's _her._ She's the one you're after. Elizabeth Stemple Fielding."

Spock found himself on the defensive, and he did not like it. "The truth should be known. Do you think it right that she is praised and honored? After what she did to you…to us…to our entire family?"

"What about Father Larry?" she asked. "Do you think he wants to see his mother's name dragged through the mud?"

"One must face facts!" he snapped.

She could not bear his anger. Putting her fingers to her temples, she cried, "Stop pressuring me! I don't like this side of you. Don't you understand? I just want to put it all behind us."

Spock's face went even stonier. Padd in hand he rose, and as he left the cabin, a loneliness as dark as space settled over her.

oooo

Seated in a secluded corner of the observation deck, Spock stared at the blank screen of his padd as he considered his parting words to T'Naisa. _One must face facts._ Perhaps the time had come for _him_ to face them. Since leaving Plum Creek, he had neglected his spiritual life, and it showed in the growing ascendancy of negative emotions. T'Naisa was correct; he _had_ been pressuring her, and at a time when she sorely needed a peaceful homecoming. Feeling his soul in disarray, he closed his eyes and searched inward for the Shiav's healing presence.

Half an hour passed before a tap on his arm roused him.

"Sir," spoke a male voice, "are you unwell?"

Spock opened his eyes and found a uniformed flight attendant. "Yes, somewhat," he conceded. "I will return to my cabin now."

Inside, he found T'Naisa lying on the bed, her face damp with tears. It was time to reorder his priorities. Throwing his padd into the cabin's disposal chute, he sat down at her side and took one of her hand into his own.

Quietly he said, "By kidnapping you and stealing even your love, Mrs. Fielding thought to punish me for the loss of her daughter. No doubt it gave her some brief satisfaction, but surely not peace." Stroking her hand, he went on. "You were right. I was after revenge, and it would not have given me much satisfaction, either. From this hour on, I will leave her to the Shiav. The past is behind us. All that matters now is this present moment…and our future together."

T'Naisa lit with joy and she rose up to embrace him.

Spock's throat went thick as he held her close and said, "First, home. Family and friends. Then…you have always wanted to attend a ballet…"

She drew back, searched his eyes, and then touched his face as if checking for a fever. "Ballet? And you actually threw away your padd."

"I thought that discarding the padd might convince you of my sincerity."

She smiled in the old, familiar way. "A dramatic act. A human act. I like it. And as for ballet, I spent my entire seventh year dancing my way through the space station in a tutu. How soon can you take me?"

"As soon as you wish."

"Then come here, my love," she said, pulling him down beside her on the bed.

Sensing her need, he cleared his throat. "Your…use of the term 'take me' _was_ referring to the ballet, correct?"

"Yes, that," she said, going for the fastenings on his shirt, "among other things."

His shirt gaped open. Reaching for the control panel behind her, she muted the lights and engaged the door lock so they could continue their Vulcan pillow talk undisturbed.

oooOOooo


End file.
